


Pastel Hellfire and Pink Brimstone

by Iridogorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, F/M, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: He thought the old lady who tried to bargain with him for her grandson’s life was insane, but then, suddenly, there’s a demon at his back and a tattoo on his arm, and the girl from the morgue is significantly more interesting.Set at the beginning of the series.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 14
Kudos: 156





	1. A Sacrifice

Jim hated the elderly.

They were so wrinkled, so frail, so close to death, and they always _smelled_. This particular one had her origins somewhere in eastern Europe, judging by the shape of her jaw and her eyebrows. She wore a brightly patterned kerchief over her dark silver hair and a black shawl with a lot of fringe around her narrow shoulders. The tassels swayed with her movement, the big sweeping gestures of her arms. She was talking, but all Jim could see were her receding gums and graying front tooth.

He wrinkled his nose. She smelled like herbal medication and black licorice. Her mouth frowned viciously, her lips chapped but then a bit of spittle came out and he sneered. She was _still_ talking.

What was she saying?

“My grandson,” he heard as he focused his attention on her, and her wrinkles had drawn up into something like annoyance, “Give him back to me.” Her accent was very thick, and she spat something at him in a Slavic dialect that he’d never bothered to learn.

“No,” he replied automatically, lips quirked up into a grin. He needed the young man for his game with Sherlock. Moran was already shoving the Semtex vest on him, with an oversized green coat to wrap over that. He had the burner phone already in his pocket, number blocked, sweet Sherly the only available contact. And this woman wasn’t even offering anything in trade. Nobody demanded anything of Jim Moriarty. Nobody demanded anything of a _villain._

“My grandson,” her voice was forceful this time, and Jim blinked. These little babushkas, he’d never had dealings with one before, but this one didn't seem to have a shred of sense. Was she going to smack him with a spoon if he refused her again? Her rheumy eyes narrowed and focused on his face. He shook his head and then paused. Frowned. How had she even gotten in here? His office was-

They weren’t in his office. They were… somewhere else. He concentrated, but the memory of how he’d gotten here slipped through his fingers like sand. How odd. He couldn’t think about their location at all.

The woman was smiling now, and it was terrible. She had four missing teeth and he could see the sockets. They were wet and red, and he fought the urge to scrub the corner of his mouth with the heel of his palm. He felt off-kilter, but instinctively straightened his spine and put on his most imposing face.

“What,” he said softly, “have you done to me?” He heard the ambient sounds of the city, muffled by the thick Plexiglass windows, but he didn’t dare look away to orient himself by the visible skyline. He got the notion that it would make him sick.

“Give me my grandson,” she hissed, and raised her hand, curled up like claws, long nails sharpened to points and yellowed. Her eyes were focused and trained on him.

Jim felt a frisson of unease slide up his spine, and all it did was make him angry.

“No,” he hissed right back, baring his teeth. “You can have him back after Sherlock has _solved_ my _puzzle_. And if he doesn't,” Jim laughed darkly, “then you can come to get what’s _left_.”

Abruptly, the woman held a scrap of pink paper in her hand. Jim couldn’t read the writing on it before the woman used her own nail to gouge a deep line into the fleshy part of her palm, and she crumpled the note in her fist. A line of blood ran down her wrist, and Jim cocked his head to the side.

“Mohella,” she grunted, hand shaking slightly, “I invoke you. One life for one life. Take _him_ and give me that which is mine by blood.”

Jim raised one eyebrow and waited, puffing out his cheeks with impatience.

Nothing happened.

“Now,” he sighed, released all of the air in his mouth, “you have to die on principle. That was terribly annoying. And maybe,” he raised one hand, “even if the puzzle is complete, my hand might just _slip-_ ” He slid one foot forward, tensed his legs and his shoulders, curving his spine, ready to _pounce_.

The old woman didn’t look frightened.

He drew his hand back, clenching it into a fist, and before he could thrust it forward, there was an iron shackle around his wrist.

Then he felt the press of little fingers, the flex of a thumb against his pulse point, and he realized it was a hand. A delicate one that held back all of his momentum, all of his weight, and didn’t waver when he tried to jerk his arm away. He turned, slightly, just enough to see, and almost dropped in shock.

Molly Hooper, the girl from the morgue, stood next to him, a smile on her face, and she shook her head slightly. Her hair was back in a ponytail, a butterfly clip set at an angle at the base of it, and the ends swung with her movement.

She was in her lab coat, a neon pink jumper, black slacks underneath, and as he watched, the air around her shifted, wavered, and there were _horns_ on her head. They were a deep, glossy black, refracting pink and violet when the sunlight hit them, curving up and around her head, curling like ram horns.

He stared at her dumbly.

He was dating this Molly, as Jim from IT, he’d kissed her, he’d peeled her clothes off in front of a television blaring that stupid American high school musical show and pressed his forehead to hers as she’d come, writhing, underneath him. He’d run his hands through her hair, and there hadn’t even been a _hint_ of anything like the horns that sat where his fingers had pressed. She’d been so small, so mousy, so perfectly ordinary. She’d blushed and stammered and she had trouble putting on gloves. A perfect disaster of a human being.

He had plans with her that night, in point of fact.

And now, she was holding his arm back as if it weighed nothing, and her eyes were going from a plain brown to entirely black, and when she smiled her teeth were _sharp._ Her posture held an easy poise, confidence that Molly Hooper just did not have. This shouldn’t have been so _easy_ for her.

She tilted her head a little, and her smile became impish, “Anya! I haven’t seen you since you were a girl. I accept your price, and return that which is yours.”

Out of nothing, the boy from before materialized, the Semtex vest barely strapped on, and he slammed into the hard floor with little ceremony. The vest started to disintegrate before Jim’s eyes, and the old woman exclaimed and kneeled down to clutch the boy’s face in her hands. He was shivering, crying, and Jim found it within him to be disgusted. He was practically twenty years old. Too old to be huddled inside the old woman’s lap.

Jim snarled and tried, again, to yank his arm away from the… whatever it was Molly Hooper was turning out to be. She was wrinkling the cuff of his suit, and this was one of his favorite Tom Fords.

“No,” and her voice was sliding into something else, something layered and slightly painful on his ears. All of his muscles froze at her soft intonation, and he swallowed. “You don’t understand what has happened. I will explain.”

Without another word, the world around him grew hazy. He felt his legs fold of their own volition, but she released his wrist to catch him around the shoulder blades. She ran a hand over his face, and he fell into darkness.


	2. An Agreement

When he woke up, he had trouble opening his eyes. It took several minutes of intense concentration for him to peel his eyelids open. 

The piercing, unfiltered light of the standard-issue spotlight shone down on him, and Molly herself was smiling, her mask tucked under her chin. Her hair was still pulled back, and her horns were still visible. Her eyes, however, were more human than they had been, back to a bright, charming russet.

In her gloved hands, she held a slippery, bloody heart. It wasn’t beating, but some part of him felt like it should have been.

When he cast his gaze down, unable to lift his head, he saw a fold of skin and the shine of forceps. He didn't feel any pain, didn’t feel much of anything at all, but it looked like his _chest_ was cracked open. Was that _his_ heart?

It dawned on him that he was on a slab.

Like a dead body.

“My name,” she said cheerfully, distracting him, “isn’t Molly Hooper.”

“Do tell,” he rasped, thankful he could still talk.

She turned the heart over and hummed, eyes scanning it carefully. “My real name is something nobody should ever know, not all of it, but _you_ are no longer a ‘somebody’. Now, you’re mine. Which, to this world, rather makes you nobody.”

“Wrong,” he replied instantly, blinking against the bright light. He forgot all about his plot to seduce her and spit out, “I’m Jim Moriarty. I’m the world’s only criminal mastermind. I’m the other half of _Sherlock Holmes_.”

She only made a low hum in the back of her throat as she gently packed his heart back into his chest. She didn’t sound surprised at his revelation, only distracted. Ducking her head down, she wiggled the mask back up over her nose and mouth, poking her fingers around in his chest cavity. She didn’t say anything else for a long time, but Jim felt her run her fingers over his lungs and force him to exhale painfully.

“What are you?” he asked, once he’d slowly inflated his lungs again. The words felt odd, distorted, and his tongue was thick in his mouth. He could feel it pressing up against his molars, widening.

“I’m what you’d probably call a demon in this day and age.” She slipped her hands further under his skin, and he would have shuddered if he could have. “Specifically, I’m a-” and then she made a noise he couldn’t decipher, but the sound resonated in his skull uncomfortably. She saw him wince and smiled apologetically, “You’ll be able to hear it in time, but you’re still slightly too mortal to process my language right now. I’m more of a… a lesser demon, I suppose. I’m not important enough to hold an office or set any policy. It’s nice, the freedom. As long as I don’t cause trouble and I check back in every few hundred years, nobody really notices I’m gone.”

“Mortal… what have you… lesser…” Jim sputtered, as much as he was able, and then he started talking quickly, staring at the crown of her head, “You’re Sherlock’s pet pathologist. You’re ordinary, plain Molly Hooper that melted at ‘You have a cute nose.’ You have a disgusting kitten-covered blog. You watch Glee and you spread your legs on the second date. I still have a _mark_ from you on my shoulder blade. I met your _cat_ and he left _fur_ all over my pants.” He had to stop and pant. His lungs were still weak.

Molly, her hands still inside of him, slowly tilted her head up until her eyes met his.

“Fool me once,” she sing-songed, and he could tell she was smiling by the way the corners of her eyes crinkled up. Sighing, she used her clean forearms to pull her mask down. The sweet expression on her face was offset by her sharp teeth when she opened her mouth. “Anya, the woman whose progeny you had decided to kill, activated an IOU. She got me out of a sticky spot when she was much younger, and I’ve owed her one ever since. I was going to end our relationship tonight, you know. I knew you were using me, I knew you had ulterior motives, and I let you seduce me because you looked like a good lay. I’m a demon, we’re not exactly celibate. I made myself human enough to pass that little test.” After she winked, she straightened and pulled off her gloves, Jim darkened his expression and sneered. 

He opened his mouth to toss out a clever retort, but she reached out with one little finger and gently closed his jaw. She smelled like blood and something sharp, like gunpowder or the air after a lightning strike.

She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, they were completely black.

“My name,” she said slowly, and Jim felt something shift deep inside of him, in his brain, in his _soul_ , if he’d ever had one, and he instinctively tried to not hear what was coming next. A very old part of his genome, the part that made people irrationally afraid of dark caves or open spaces, was screaming at him to get up and _run_. Unfortunately for him, he was no longer in control of his legs. She paused and studied him, considered his fear and started again, “I am Mohella Fornhooper. I claim you, James Moriarty, as trade and tribute on behalf of Anya Reznik.”

Something changed inside of him, and her name, her true name, hurt his ears and made the center of his brain _vibrate_ , but he heard it and he understood the words. He _saw_ her, for a moment, all horns and black eyes and some part of her was on _fire_ and the rest of her was just- He blinked and it vanished, everything but the horns. She was plain again, suspiciously ordinary.

“Oh!” She started, and it was such a human gesture that it took him back. The black in her eyes receded with her rapid blinking, and she stared down into his open ribcage. “You must be wondering about… that.”

He couldn’t speak for a second, he was so shocked. After staring at her for too long, he ground out, “Yes. I am curious about why I’m being _vivisected_.”

“Oh, no, it’s an autopsy,” she corrected automatically. “You’re dead.” She took out her suture kit, removed the forceps, and started to put him back to rights.

“I’m dead? What does that mean?” It made sense, but he was still… he felt alive.

“You’re as dead as most of the mortals that have ever existed,” Mohella confirmed. She didn’t look up from her work. “What it means is that you’re mine now, and _that_ means that only I get to say when you get to lay down and quit this world. You’ll keep going until I decide otherwise. You’re dead _because_ you decided to kill the young man instead of letting him live, even if Sherlock solved your puzzle. A life,” she tugged another stitch through the thin pale skin of his upper chest, “for a life. That was the deal."

If Jim could have moved his arms, he would have rubbed his hands over his face. What a terrifying level of control she exerted over him. He felt a deep stab of bitter envy for her power. He’d intended to die in a few short months, but this was too soon. He had _plans_. He had so many things set up just so, nearly all of his pieces ready to play, and now he had to find another pawn to call Sherlock for the bloodied sports car. _And_ another Semtex vest. Damn and blast. What was Moran even doing? Where was his phone? How long had he been here?

“You’re thinking,” Molly sighed as she tied the last stitch off. When she stood again, she was fully human. She gave him a pitying smile. “You don’t need to think. You’re dead and you’re mine. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

“I have to finish my game, then I can die with Sherlock,” Jim said absently, staring at the ceiling. If he was in the morgue at Saint Bart’s, he knew exactly how quickly he could get back to where Moran should still be. Annoying, he hadn’t memorized the tile pattern on the ceiling. He couldn’t be sure.

Her hands stilled, “Sherlock.” She set the tools down heavily, and when he flicked his eyes to her, those thin lips were set in an unforgiving line.

“The game has begun,” he would have nodded if he could have, “I have so many _challenges_ , I don’t doubt that he’ll solve them, he’s just so-” Jim’s eyes started to darken with arousal, and his lips peeled back in a terrifying grin. His voice lowered to a whisper, “At the end of it, he’s going to take a little _tumble,_ a little _fall_. We’re going to go _together_.”

“No.” Her voice pressed on him like a physical thing, and he swore he heard all of his bones _creak_. It was like the keen of an iron bell as he was crushed by the very atmosphere, the air around him. He gasped for breath, but his lungs wouldn’t expand. “You have already _gone._ You are already _dead._ I forbid you to touch Sherlock. He’s not for _you._ ”

She tapped her sharp little nails on the steel bed, clearly annoyed.

Jim smiled nastily, “I have already _touched_ him. You didn’t _know,_ did you?” He laughed as much as his lungs would let him. The air rushed out of him and they regarded each other with calculating looks. “What does he matter to you anyway?” He realized, dimly, that was _odd._ “If you’re a… a _demon_ -”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped, and her cheeks started to pink.

“I’ll seduce him,” he swiftly, and she paused, one eyebrow raised, “I’ll seduce him, and I’ll bring him to you, and you can have _both_ of us. Together.”

“Sherlock doesn’t like sex, and you can’t bargain a soul that isn’t yours,” she started slowly.

He interjected, ignoring the first half of her statement, “But I _can_ bargain with a _life_ that isn’t mine, proven I can take it.” There was a heavy, pregnant silence where she didn’t disagree, and he said lowly, “I don’t know what else you need, but I can cut him short. I can end it. I can end _him_ , and then I don’t care what happens after that.”

She looked slightly uncomfortable, but intrigued, “I don’t actually want him to _die-_ ”

He rolled his eyes, and if he could have scrubbed his hands over his face he would have. Easily, he switched tactics. “I don’t have to _kill_ _him_ kill him, I can just… scare him. Puzzle him. He was so _tickled_ by my trick with the sneakers, by the mystery of the damned _Carl Powers_ , I’m sure he’d just _love_ everything else I have planned. Months, years, _a lifetime_ of work set up for this moment, and who does he turn to when he needs help?” He raised his eyebrows at her expectantly.

“His new friend, John Watson.” She replied automatically, but her eyes started to take on a calculating look and bleed from brown to black, flashes of violet under the bright light. The air around her started to crackle.

“And when he needs something more than that simple foot soldier can give?” The question came out gently, softly, a nudge in the right direction. “When he needs bodies, or a _lab,_ or a set of steady hands to help him work? A mind, bright in the sciences?”

“It’s me.” He had to strain to hear her, and he nodded his approval. She started to look soft, blushing pink as a rose, but her eyes took on a sharper look that betrayed the humanity of her. “It’s _me._ ” She repeated it softly, but with a hint of darkness, of madness, that he wildly approved of.

He bit his tongue from provoking her, and instead caught her darkening eyes with his own. “What do you say, Mohella Fornhooper?” He said it with a grin like the edge of a knife. “Do you want to catch Sherlock Holmes after I make him fall?”

If he hadn’t been staring at her so closely, he would have missed the way she nodded her head a fraction of an inch. He tried to raise one arm, but his body was like lead. He inclined his head a little, and she stared back at him without blinking.

“What do you want in return?” She asked it belatedly, unable to agree to without the full terms being set.

He shrugged, as much as he could. It was more expression on his face and a twinge in his neck that implied the nonchalance of the movement. “Nothing, really, just the ability to bring him down. He’s an _angel_ -”

She laughed, the sound harsh on his ears, “Oh, you wouldn’t say that if you’d ever met an angel. The sight of one of _them_ would burn your eyes right out of your skull. Right unfriendly lot, they are. Sherlock is as human as human can be, you can be sure of that.”

Jim frowned, “That’s not the _point._ He’s a _white hat_ , then. A good guy. I want to-”

“You don’t have to explain your reasoning, Jim.” She was still smiling, and she waved a hand dismissively, “You’re insane. I knew that the moment I met you. You’re obsessed with Sherlock, I understand that now, but what we’re talking about is what do I get if you _fail.”_

He’d started scowling the moment she called him insane, his face darkening dangerously. She looked at him expectantly, and he bit out, “You can have-”

“I already have you,” she interjected, “so don’t tell me that. And no more trying to bargain anyone else’s soul. The deal, so far, is that I will allow you to play your little game with Sherlock so that I can be there to pick him up after you’re done. But what happens if he doesn’t play along? What do I get if you don’t deliver on your promise?”

“You’re making this so complicated!” he complained, shaking his head back and forth. “Why can’t we cross that bridge if we get to it? Why do we have to decide that _now?_ This a bit of a _time-sensitive_ operation, after all. Things set up, expectations in place, people to kill, you understand. Just let me start it, and if I fail we’ll come up with something else. Maybe I’ll steal the crown jewels for you, who knows. I’m a powerful man to have in your pocket, Molly Hooper, you could rule the world with me at your side.”

“You aren’t nearly that powerful,” she said absently, but her fingers were tapping a pattern into the cold flesh of his thigh. He knew that look, he always knew that look. She was _considering._

“We’ll figure it out,” his voice smoothed out seductively, “You can set your price. You-”

She turned from him abruptly with a groan, scrubbing her fingers over her face. “No, I can’t set my price, Jim! You don’t understand, you have no idea who is keeping an eye on him! You don’t-” She bit herself off with a hiss.

He opened his mouth and she slashed her hand down in frustration. He found his jaw grinding closed without his permission and he shot her a murderous glare. 

She visibly gathered herself, all signs of her true nature fading behind a meek mask of humanity. When she opened her eyes again, they locked onto him and she gave another deep breath. “You’re interesting, and I like that.”

Jim was taken aback at how that sounded coming from the other side. That was _his_ line. Said at him, it sounded insincere and patronizing. He filed that away for later and decided to take offense today. Or he would have, if he could have opened his mouth.

Oblivious to his inner struggle, Molly continued, “You’re mine now, and I’ll always know where you are and what you’re doing. I’ve put you back to rights,” she gestured at his chest with one small hand, “and took the liberty of adding something a little extra.” Her eyes went to his left bicep and he found his head turning as well.

There, on his flesh, was a thick black band, solid and as wide as his palm, marked as unnatural because it reflected light in shimmering shades of violet and rose, same as Mohella’s horns. It was undecorated, no whorls or flowers or fancy trim, and he found himself annoyed, but not furious. At least it was _tasteful._ But it was still something he never thought he would have on him.

It was a _brand._

He turned his head back to her slowly, and found he was allowed the use of his voice again. Had he ever been naked, cut open, strapped to a table and bound by a lovely little hellbeast before? No. But had he been in a compromising situation where he appeared to have no choice?

_Yes._

He’d made it out before, and he’d make it out of this one. Molly Hooper, Mohella Fornhooper, whatever her name was, she thought she had the upper hand. As his eyes met hers and he gave her a wide smile, he vowed in his heart to bring her to her _knees._

“Fascinating,” he breathed, before he laughed as loud as he could.


End file.
